


A Wizard Walks into a Bar

by megolas



Category: Books of Magic, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:07:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megolas/pseuds/megolas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's another one of you boy wizards in London now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wizard Walks into a Bar

Tim meets John in a dank pub in the middle of London. John still wears the ever present trench coat and Tim spots him leaning against the bar, fag hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"'ullo Tim. Drink?"

"Yeah, pint, ta."

"I ain't bloody paying, you can get your own."

Tim rolls his eyes and orders a pint from the barman. "You just don't change, do you?"

"Nah, not really, mate."

Tim's pint arrives and they skirt the edges of the pub, till they find an empty table in the far corner. The table is sticky with split beer and Tim's pint immediately sticks to the table. John stubs his fag out on the tabletop and lights a new one, watching Tim over the cloud of smoke.

"So, how's life treating you, John?"

John shrugs and shoves his lighter and Silk Cuts back into his pocket. "Ah, same old, same old. Demons on my back. You?"

"Eh.'S alright, I suppose."

"There's another one of you boy wizards in London now."

"Sorry?" Tim's pint stops in mid air. "Another what?"

"Some kid.'S bout your age. They call him the Boy who Lived. He's one of those poncy robe and wand lot. Seems they had a bit of trouble with one of them. Went all dark side of the force on them, killing sprees, the lot. Bit of a wanker, if you ask me."

"Oh?" Tim's pint carries back on up as he waits for John to continue.

"Anyway, this kid's his nemesis or something. They had a big showdown about two, three years ago. Kid killed this Voldemort bloke and finishes his final year at Poncy Wizard School. Caused a lot of shockwaves in my circles, I'll tell you that. Half my poker group died but I can't say I miss the cheating bastards. Anyway the kid lives in London now, shares a flat with a bloke I know, werewolf. Nice fella."

"Like you didn't cheat yourself. Anyway, what's this got to do with me?"

John shrugs. "Beside the point. Thought you might want to know. In case you run into him or summat. Looks a bit like you, actually. Glasses, brown hair. Got a scar on his forehead. Looks like a bleedin' lightning bolt."

"Yeah. Ok. I'll keep it in mind."

***

The pub Tim's in is bustling. It's not crowded, too far off the map for that but there's definitely a crowd forming at the bar and the tables are being snapped up already. He's leaning on the bar, pulling a Constantine, only without the Silk Cuts and the trench coat, when the door opens again, the rain blowing in with a boy that seems vaguely familiar. He's wrapped up tight in a huge coat, the hood of which obscures his face but he pulls it down when he reaches the bar, revealing glasses, dishevelled brown hair and a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt across his forehead.

The barman taps Tim on the shoulder, dropping his change with a sticky thud onto the counter. The newcomer looks slightly awkward in the light, gangly and remarkably unpowerful. Tim wonders if maybe John had got it wrong, was pulling his leg or something. Figures there's only one way to find out.

"Hey, you the Boy who Lived?"

The kid's answer is guarded. "Yeah, who're you?"

"Tim Hunter. I'm a friend of John Constantine."

The boy shook his head. "Means nothing to me."

"Friend of a friend. He knows the wolf. Said I should keep an eye out for you 'cause we work in similar circles."

Harry blinks, orders his pint and turns back to face Tim. "Oh. Right, I see. Call me Harry." He pauses to get his pint and sticky change. "The Boy who lived gets awkward."

"So, you're a wizard then? Er, you didn't go to Hogwarts obviously." said Harry as they headed for an empty table.

"A Mage actually. And no."

"A Mage? Is that like a squib?"

"A what?"

Harry shrugged, draining his pint glass. "Squibs, they're members of wizarding families that didn't get the skills to do proper magic. I feel sorry for them. Is your magic like that?"

Tim blinked. "Um. No." He stood up. He really needed another drink. "I'm just going to the bar..."

***

Ten pints later and Tim can feel the alcohol seeping through his body. He should've stopped back at the sixth pint but there's just something about this kid that rubs him in a good and bad way, although, right now it's mostly bad, and alcohol is the best form of defence Tim's come across. And it's not like he's going to fall over or anything, it's just the mouth control that's suffering. John always said he'd land himself in trouble with that and Tim can see what he means as Harry rambles drunkenly on about his school days. Tim might snap if he has to hear another story about how great their magic is and how Harry Saved The World Eighteen Times Before Breakfast.

"...and then we fought him..."

Tim twitched, pint glass landing with a thud on the table. "You know what? Fuck your magic! I've been to places you've never imagined. I've seen the Dream Lord Morpheus and his realm; I've been to Faerie and to the beginning and end of time. I saw the Morningstar fall. What have you seen with your wand and robe?"

The remains of Harry's pint sloshed onto the table as he stood, chair scraping across the floor, hands fisting in the lapels of Tim's shirt.

"I spent my childhood being the hope of the wizarding world. When I was 18, I watched my schoolmates die fighting in a war that shouldn't have happened. I never knew my parents because of Voldemort. That's what I've seen with my wand and robe."

Tim drew in a breath, his hands rising to pry Harry's from his shirt when the hefty hands of the landlord closed on his shoulder.

"You two. Out."

The road outside the pub was slick with rain and Harry's hands curled into fists by his side, as he slip-stepped towards Tim, wand sliding into his hand.

"Petrific--"

Tim gestured and the wand vanished from Harry's hand, reappearing in Tim's grasp. He held it up and looked at it.

"You need *this* to do magic? How pathetic." Tim paused and the wand turned into a yo-yo. "Your magic is outdated. Weak. You can have it back later." He shoved the yo-yo into his pocket.

Harry bristled, "Fuck you!" and charged, shoving into Tim with a curse, fingers scrabbling for a hold as Tim shoved back, their feet slipping across the wet road.

Tim grunted, his foot sliding between Harry's and yanking them apart. Harry dug into Tim's shoulders with his fingers, crashing up against him as they weaved across the road, back onto the pavement and off again, the air littered with curses.

Tim pinned Harry against the wall with a growl. "You just never give up."

Harry slithered back under his arm, fist swinging around. "Give me my wand!"

Tim staggered back with the punch, shoulders connecting with the wall. "Ow. Fuck!"

"Fucker." Harry's voice was muffled through his fist. He pushed up against Tim, coming to rest pressed up against his chest, one arm balanced against the wall.

"Uh." said Harry, peering at him through rain spotted glasses for a moment. "Oh, fuck it."

"Fuck what?" said Tim before Harry was suddenly /there/ and kissing him so hard, Tim's head banged against the bricks. "Oh." He thought as he kissed back. "That."

One of Harry's hands was working at Tim's jeans, tugging at the zip as his other threaded through Tim's hair, pulling him in again for a kiss, fingers spanning the curve of his head. Tim gasped, hips jerking forward as Harry's hand slid below the waist of his boxers and curled around his cock.

"Aahhh. Christ." Tim's cry was muffled in Harry's mouth as his hand continued to tease, hips jerking against each other as Tim's fingers curled under Harry's shirt, nails scratching against the skin. "Fuck. Fuck."

Harry's breathing was ragged, his face flushed as Tim's hands scratched across his chest, nipples tightening as Tim's mouth curved along his jaw towards his neck. "We're...fuck...exposed."

Tim pulled away and Harry whimpered low in his throat at the loss of contact, fingers loosening. Tim's voice was rough. "Now we're not. Don't fucking stop."

***

Tim's head hurt. A lot. The room was in its usual morning fuzzy dimness and he leant over to fumble for his glasses and put them on. The room remained fuzzy and the pain behind his eyes increased.

"Who the fuck owns these? They're not my glasses."

The lump of bedclothes on the other side of the bed groaned and made heaving noises. "Oh, fuck me."

Tim grimaced. "I think I did."

Harry stuck his head out from under the bedclothes and scrunched up his face against the light peevishly. "Can I have my glasses back, please?"

Tim grabbed the other pair of glasses and stared blankly at the yo-yo on the floor. The previous night came sidling back into his head, grinning sheepishly. "Oh bollocks." He reached down and picked it up, watching it turn back into a battered wand. "Er, this is yours I think."

Harry slid out of the bed and grabbed his wand. "Accio clothes." The scattered clothes appeared in a neat pile by Harry's foot and he dressed quickly, fingers sliding over faint marks as he buttoned up his shirt.

Tim rubbed his face and eyed the scratches running down his arm. "Maybe I'll er, see you around? Buy you a drink, apologise?"

"Maybe." And with that, Harry's gone with a pop.


End file.
